THE RELATIONSHIP EXPERT - Joshua Seigal Releases Debut Pamphlet of Poetry for Adults. And it's free

Since the end of 2025, I have been working, near enough solidly, on a pamphlet of poetry for adults. I am best known as a children's poet, but this has been the direction in which my creative energies have been taking me. A handful of the poems in the collection have found their way into 'heavyweight' publications - a big shout out especially to Poetry Wales - but I was left with the question of what to do with the collection as a whole. I started off thinking I would submit it to some big publishers. I tried my luck with Faber (no word from them), and there are any number of smaller presses I could and perhaps should have considered. 

In the end, I decided the self-publish it. Not in print, but as a freely downloadable digital document, under a Creative Commons license, meaning anyone is free to download it onto their devices, in order to keep and share it with others. I don't know if this decision is very brave, or very stupid. Maybe both. Maybe I should have waited until some editor with a PhD decided in his bounteous munificence to publish what I have to offer. But I'm not really part of that world. More to the point, I have deeply personal reasons for doing it this way. My way. I could expound at length on these reasons, but for now I will say only this: life is short. Traditional publishing is a cumbersome process and we never know how long we have. The world is a precarious place. The future is not secure. I want my little document out there, in the world, for everyone. I want it to bring a tiny little bit of joy to a small fraction of people. I think it is the best body of work I have ever produced. 

Here it is, available to download for free, on this link: https://archive.org/details/the-relationship-expert-by-joshua-seigal

Here is a sample poem, below. It's one of the poems from the book I'm most proud of: 

Grandpa David 

He agrees to meet on Hampstead Heath – 

a rainy Tuesday, the branches bare. 

He unfurls his umbrella for us to share. 

I become aware of the hip flask in his pocket, 

the packet of fags lying close to his breast.

As we synchronise steps, he tells me 

it wasn’t easy. None of it was easy – 

letting his fiancée’s family believe he had

a degree; getting up every morning

and donning a suit, to pretend to my grandma

that he had a job. It wasn’t easy walking

the streets every day until the sun

went down, then returning to a woman

who he knew didn’t love him anyway.

Can you understand why I drink now?

Can you understand why I smoke?

Look, I’m sorry, he says – I’m touched that

your middle name is David. And I’m sorry

I died before you were born. Shaking

rain from brolly, taking fag from mouth,

we part ways by the gates at Kenwood House, 

and glancing back – I couldn’t swear

but I think – he reaches for the hip flask

to have just the one more drink.

Joshua Seigal

Sending big love to all!

A Word About the Bird

I reckon I’m a sea bird. 

My mind just works that way. 

I may have just convinced myself – 

I’m gullible, some say. 

Joshua Seigal

My Uncle's a Punk Rocker

My uncle’s a punk rocker. 

He thrashes his guitar.

He shouts into the microphone. 

We think he is a star. 

He has a cool mohican

and an armful of tattoos.

He wears a leather jacket.

He don’t care about taboos. 

My uncle’s got a gang of mates.

Some people find him frightful. 

To us he is an idol.

We consider him delightful.

He may not have a ‘normal’ job

like doctor or attorney.

To others he’s a reprobate. 

To us, he’s Uncle Ernie.

Joshua Seigal 

I Asked AI to Write a Poem

and do you know what?

I was actually pretty good. 

The vocabulary was nice and rich

and it scanned well too. 

It was funny, and interesting

and it made me want to read further. 

It contained a good mix

of similes, metaphors

and others kinds of figurative language. 

It was fluent and slick

and I was sure

that if I put it in a book

the readers would enjoy it.

It was, in other words,

a highly serviceable poem.

Then I deleted it

and wrote this. 

Joshua Seigal

Milk on the Window Sill

For our science project

we put a cup of milk

on the window sill.

Then we left it for a week.

We wanted to see

what would happen.

Part of me hoped something

miraculous would occur – 

rainbows sprouting through

the roof, or satyrs singing 

in majestic chorus, perhaps..

But deep down I knew

that it would turn yellow,

then go putrid, and stink,

until Miss Cartwright made us

throw it all away.

Joshua Seigal

From My Mind to Yours

These words are a gift

from my mind to yours. 

It’s not perfect, of course – 

my mind is a human mind

and these words might not

be exactly what your need

right now. But here they are. 

Human to Human. Mind 

to Mind. Take this gift, 

and know that all your devices 

might be faster, smarter, 

more slick and to the point,

But they can’t gift you this love,

from my mind to yours.

Joshua Seigal 

Slippers

foot-cave

toe-den

not for me – 

for big men

cosy-cavern

ankle-palace 

place to put

a corn and callus 

watch me stomp!

watch me waddle!

watch me clomp!

watch me toddle!

heel-hammock

nail-nook 

comfy-cranny

come and look

squashy-boots

fluffy-flippers

how I love

my dad’s slippers!

Joshua Seigal

Mara-Mara Capybara

Mara-Mara

Capybara

bought a pretty

pink tiara

looking like

a superstar

she put it

on her head

Mara-Mara

Capybara

ate a plate

of carbonara

in her pretty

pink tiara

sitting up

in bed

Joshua Seigal

Joshua Seigal is Highly Commended in Poetry Wales Award 2026

Well then. I can finally announce it. I have been Highly Commended in the 2026 Poetry Wales Award. The poem that garnered this accolade is called 'Football on the Radio', and I am delighted to share it here on my blog. However, before I do so, I should say that an interesting thing happened: by mistake, I submitted an early draft of the poem to the award (which ended up being Highly Commended). However, I have since edited the poem into a final version, which will hopefully appear in a forthcoming collection. So I will present the two poems side by side, to give you a flavour of the editing process, and also because you might have your own opinion as to which version is 'better'. Here, then, is the final, finished version:

Football on the Radio

There he is, my dad, listening to the radio

at the kitchen table. No internet back then,

no mobile phones – I’m lying in my bed

and he’s downstairs following the match,

adjusting the aerial to get the right signal,

moving in and out through static and crackle.

Take it in: he’s pounding his fists, a whoop

and a clap when we score, a colourful curse

when the run of play doesn’t go our way.

And there I am, six years old, downstairs now

on a school night, sitting on his knee, 

listening to the match on that little box

and I can’t quite work out what’s going on

but here we are, and he holds me tight, and 

we’re winning, we’re winning, we’re winning.

........................................................................................

And here is the earlier version, which was judged by the Poetry Wales Award. I think it is not quite as good as the finished version, but hey - why not make up your own minds?

Thank you so much to everyone involved in the Poetry Wales Award, and Poetry Wales magazine (who published me in 2023), for having faith in me and my work!!

Tiny Dogs

Step outside and you will see

The tiny dogs of Italy 

Ladies strutting down the street

Whilst pooches totter at their feet

Smart young men in dapper cuffs

With fancy canines (never scruffs)

Models like you see in mags

With cool chihuahuas in their bags

A classy granny quaffs a spritz

Whilst on her lap a poodle sits

Yes amble round the little towns 

With teeny tykes in whites and browns

And notice how, in Italy

A pup suits people prettily.

Joshua Seigal 

If the World Were a Cat

If the world were a cat

people might think twice

before burning it. 

People are not generally given

to letting cats go up in flames. 

In general, people nurture

and cherish felines – 

that’s how cats have thrived

over thousands of years. 

If the world were a cat

people would doubtless

be a bit kinder to it. 

They’d give it what it needs. 

They wouldn’t want to see it suffer. 

Even though cats

don’t really do an awful lot,

we love them. We care. 

Think of all we do for cats. 

And think of all the world

does for us.

Joshua Seigal 

LIVING WITH ANXIETY

This morning I woke up in a panic. I was worried that the electrical set up of our kitchen appliances constituted a major fire hazard. Two years ago we had a new fridge freezer fitted, and the guy who installed it said the electrics looked a bit dodgy. It wasn’t within his remit to advise what to do, so he just installed the thing and went on his way. It’s been fine ever since, and I haven’t really thought about it. Until this morning, when I woke up in a maelstrom of terror. I’m currently waiting for the emergency electrician to come and take a look, and will probably pay through the nose for peace of mind.*

This is what living with anxiety is like. Normal life events become a case of fire fighting. My brain is constantly scanning for things that might go wrong. Are the windows in our flat suitable for jumping ouf of, in case there is a fire? Do we have the proper insurance? Are the flights booked for when we go away? Is my website set up correctly? Did I inadvertently plagiarise a poem? Did I just go through a red traffic light?

Talking of cars, I had a borderline mental breakdown in 2018, the year of my wedding, when I thought I was going to get a driving ban. The wedding was occupying a lot of my thought, and I was also doing a lot of driving for work, often in unfamiliar parts of the country. Perhaps because my mind was elsewhere, I ended up accruing a series of penalty points for some fairly minor infractions. I was at risk of a driving ban, and had to go to court in Leamington to plead my case. Luckily I wasn’t banned, but boy – the anxiety was something else. And because I actually have a certified anxiety disorder, my mind went to all kinds of weird and wonderful places: What if I end up in the local paper: ‘Children’s Poet Gets Driving Ban’? What if schools don’t want to employ me because of this? What if what if what if?

My anxiety is intermingled with OCD. OCD means that I get certain, highly specific worries in my mind, and literally can’t relax or do anything else until I think I’ve solved them. It never gets properly solved though; the worries just find new ways to intrude. The real way to deal with it is simply to sit with the anxiety until it goes away. That’s the theory anyway. Much easier said than done. Because anxiety and OCD are technically separate conditions, they affect me in slightly different ways. Anxiety is a response to normal life events (such as the electrics in the kitchen) that get blown way out of proportion in my mind; OCD can latch on to things that are a little bit more, well, weird. It also thrives around transitions – getting married, moving house, having a baby, getting a new job – and attempts to hijack it. It saps joy. It causes misery. 

I say that anxiety and OCD are technically separate conditions; this is according to the DSM, a document that doctors have produced in an attempt to codify and classify diagnoses. My own lived experience, however, tells me that they are actually very hard to disentangle. I’m not sure how much I trust the DSM anyway. I know that its utility is often disputed among professionals. 

Take the issue of world events. Since the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, I have been obsessed with geopolitics. The nuclear spectre has loomed extremely large, but the fear of conventional war in Europe is pretty intense too. Anxiety around this issue would be pretty normal, and I spend a lot of my time, sometimes whole days, 24/7, worried about it. For myself and for future generations. But OCD plays a part as well, in the form of compulsions which are undertaken in a misguided attempt to relieve the anxiety. These involve obsessively checking the news, and also asking questions to AI. I do this until I get the answer I want, then do it all over again as soon as another scary headline hits the news. It’s exhausting.

Part of living with anxiety and OCD is the sensation of not going anywhere. Of staying still. Stuck. I said earlier that I might worry about whether our windows are safe enough in the event of a fire. Do I do anything to actually check the windows? No. I just worry about it. The energy gets used up in the worry, rather than any action I might undertake. Do I actually get involved with organisations that might help contribute to global safety? Not really. I just obsessively worry about it. I didn’t leave home until I was 27. I was single for ten years before meeting my wife, because I got too anxious to form a relationship. I took years to decide to get married. And years more to decide to do other things that might advance my life. One of the reasons I love my wife is that she is a do-er. She wants to move forward. We complement each other well. I think. (Am I going to start obsessing over this, now?...)

I’m not sure why I wrote this blog post. Maybe it’s simply to give others a flavour of what my mind is like, and to let those whose minds work in similar ways know that they are not alone. Maybe there are some benefits to the anxiety too: I am fastidious in my writing, and scrupulous in my desire to be a good husband. But it’s all very tiring. Sending big love to all, wherever and whoever you are. 

*The electrician came, said everything was OK, and charged £230. 

I wrote a poem about love

and now I can’t even bear to look at it. 

You sit there asking what do we do? what do we do?

and I’ve no idea. I’ve no idea. 

We hold hands tightly. I stroke your thigh.

My poems don’t matter anymore. Nothing matters

except you. Except me with you. 

You with me. Damn the poems. 

We are the poems. The poems are us

and I can barely bear to look at them.

What good are these love poems

when you’re having a panic attack at 5am?

When you can barely breathe?

I wrote a poem about love

and now I can’t even bear to look at it. 

I’m too busy looking to bear it.

Joshua Seigal 

Cupboard Love

There’s nothing like a cupboard

to deposit all your stuff,

like sausages and sandwiches

and tangled balls of fluff,

plus slugs and scraps of paper

you discovered on the street – 

just chuck them in your cupboard

and the mission is complete.

There’s nothing like a cupboard

to secrete those treasured goodies,

like sweaty socks and undies

and a heap of unwashed hoodies.

For all the bits you’ve gathered,

when your space has been exceeded,

a little extra room’s a must – 

a cupboard’s what is needed.

There’s nothing like a cupboard

to secure that precious stash

of cartons of rice pudding

you recovered from the trash.

I love my trusty cupboard

and it cannot be denied,

so stick a clothes-peg on your nose

and take a peak inside.

Joshua Seigal

Lenny Won't Walk

Lenny won’t walk

when you put on his lead. 

It’s against his beliefs. 

It conflicts with his creed. 

You can offer him treats. 

You can tempt and cajole. 

He won’t go for an amble,

a jaunt or a stroll. 

Lenny won’t walk 

if you beg and you plea.

He just sits on the pavement

or goes for a wee. 

You can bellow and urge

and beseech and solicit – 

a stubborn refusal 

is always explicit. 

It’s really no use 

if you holler or squawk.

No, it’s best to give up

because Lenny won’t walk.

Joshua Seigal

Exact Replica

after Arnold Zuboff 

They made an exact replica of my wife.

Cell for cell, precisely duplicated.

It had all the same memories, hopes, desires.

It had all the same quirks, dreams, regrets.

It knew me by name.

And as I heard it rattling the doorknob,

trying hard to get in,

calling out for me, I held your hand.

Brain-blank and spine-shot,

your soft hand in mine,

the both of us encased

in the white walls of the hospital.

For Better or Worse, I promised.

The You is the Love that persists.

Joshua Seigal 

The Book-Child

You spend your days and nights shaping it into

something approaching perfection. Or, if not perfection,

helping it live up to its potential – an extra comma

here, a colon there, maybe a sentence or two to be deleted. 

This thing means something. It’s part of you. You wake up

at 4am – has it transmogrified without your knowledge?

You open up the document and give it another read.

It’s just as you left it. Back to bed. Come the morning

you know its safe, sleeping soundly in its little folder.

But potential means the big wide world, that frisson of

getting older. Maybe others won’t gift it quite the same love,

won’t understand it as you do, won’t see it as worthy of

quite the same stakes. That’s the risk you have to take. 

You can’t keep your baby at home forever. You have to

let paper wings fly. You have to kiss them goodbye.

Joshua Seigal